


but then again, no

by mitsubishi_macchiato



Category: Rocketman (2019)
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Canon Compliant, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-09 19:20:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19482340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mitsubishi_macchiato/pseuds/mitsubishi_macchiato
Summary: “What thefuckwas that?!”“A song,” Bernie says dumbly. “Your Song.”“Fuck off, you know I know that,” Elton snaps. “Come on. I mean,whatthe fuckwasthat?”





	but then again, no

**Author's Note:**

> This is totally fiction. I know that Bernie Taupin and Elton John in real life had nothing more or less than a perfectly professional and friendly working relationship and I in no way want to speculate on any real-life events.
> 
> But wow, that scene in the movie. Jamie Bell did some real face-journey acting there. COME ON.

Bernie is getting ready to shave when he hears it. The song is still rough, still being loosely sketched out and improvised as Elton sings, but it’s also simultaneously so much more beautiful than Bernie had ever, in a thousand years, imagined anything he could ever write would be.

He finds himself drawn downstairs without even realizing it, tugged inexorably towards the sound of the piano by forces beyond his control. Elton doesn’t even see him at first, too focused on his composition to look up, and Bernie is grateful for it, because he knows that the look on his face will give him away but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t control himself; the truth is writ large in his eyes and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

The truth, in this case, is that maybe Elton’s feelings aren’t so one-sided after all. Maybe. Bernie’s not actually sure, either way, which is why he wrote a song about it, because he has no real idea how to process any of his emotions in any way except writing songs about them. Maybe it’s not the healthiest, but all his best work so far has been borne out of one emotional turmoil or another, so he doesn’t exactly feel the need to stop anytime soon.

This might cure him of that. Elton notices him, finally, and turns to shoot him a grin, eyes dancing, and something inside Bernie just thoroughly melts, right then and there. Bernie smiles back, because how could he _not_ smile back, when Elton is looking like that and sounding like that and singing his words like–like _that–_

Because that’s the thing, really. It really is Elton’s song; he’d written it with a generic recipient in mind, sure, but every time he closed his eyes to think of the next line it was Elton’s face that had flashed before his eyes. And he could tell that Elton knew that by the tone of his voice as he sang; he knew that Elton knew what he’d been saying. And when Elton sang his own words back to him, he was truly singing his own words _back_ to him. “This one’s for you,” he crooned, looking directly at Bernie, and Bernie didn’t even know how to react to that.

This song–it was _theirs_. They’d created it for each other, back and forth and back and forth, and now it was something bigger than either one of them individually but it had the roots of their relationship. 

“Yours are the sweetest eyes I’ve ever seen,” Elton sang, and this was when Bernie truly felt blindsided. He’d written those words, and he’d written those words about Elton, but somehow he’d never done the math that Elton might _realize_ that those words were _about him–_

Bernie thinks he blacks out a little, then. Elton finishes the song, but he barely hears it. “Come on,” Elton says, rising off the piano bench, “upstairs. Now. We need to talk about this.”

Of course Bernie follows him. He would probably follow Elton to the ends of the Earth at this point; of course he’s going to follow him upstairs to the bedroom they’re sharing. 

Elton waits until the door is shut behind them and then he turns to glare upward at Bernie; the soft look he’d worn while singing is long gone, and his eyes hold nothing but irritation and hurt. “What the _fuck_ was that?!”

“A song,” Bernie says dumbly. “ _Your Song._ ”

“Fuck off, you know I know that,” Elton snaps. “Come on. I mean, _what_ the fuck _was_ that?”

Bernie swallows. “It’s our first hit, or it’s going to be. I’d put money on it. And it’s–it’s about you.”

There’s a moment. Elton takes a deep breath.

“What are you playing at here, man?” he asks, plaintive. “I open myself up to you, I make a–you know, I make a play at you and you shoot me down and then the next week you’re over here writing love songs for me? What kind of sick joke is this?”

‘“It’s not a joke,” Bernie says immediately. “I swear to you, Elton, I would never do that.”

“Yeah, I know that,” Elton says, “except for how all of a sudden you have.”

“It’s not a joke,” Bernie repeats. “I’m just trying to figure some things out. I’m trying to figure out how I feel about you.”

“How you– _feel_ about me?!”

“I like you so much, Elton. You’re my best friend in the entire world. You understand me, you make my songs come to life, and sometimes I swear that you’re the only person in the whole world who knows who I truly am. And I maybe, possibly, just a little bit, do actually want to kiss you back sometimes, and I don’t know how to _deal_ with that except for writing a song. So I did. There it is.”

“You know how _I_ feel about _you?_ You just–you matter to me,” Elton says. “You just … you matter. You’re the first person I’ve ever met who’s really understood me. Reading your song lyrics–it feels like I’m seeing my soul outside my body, written down in ways I’d never even thought it could ever be.”

“That’s how it feels when you sing them,” Bernie confesses. “That’s _exactly_ how it feels, like–like for the first time in my whole life, there’s someone who’s fundamentally similar to me at a base level, like–like–”

“We work well together,” Elton says. “We work _too_ well together, to ever risk messing that up, with anything. Before, when I tried to kiss you–”

“I was wrong to say no,” Bernie interrupts. 

“I was wrong even to try it,” Elton tells him. “Our connection, our friendship, our _professional working relationship_ , that’s all too precious to me to ever run any risk of ruining it.”

“But what if we didn’t,” Bernie says. “What if we didn’t ruin it, what if we–”

“But what if we _did,_ ” Elton says, too loud, and Bernie thinks about it, and–

Sure, he wants Elton. He wants him in a way he’s never wanted anyone before, in a way he didn’t even realize he could want another man. But in a totally different way he already has Elton, and he won’t ever give up the Elton he already has for the one he might one day have.

“Oh,” is all that Bernie can say, soft and punched-out. Just– “Oh.”

“I know,” Elton says, “God, I know, but you know I’m right.”

Bernie does know, which makes it all the worse. “Just once,” he says plaintively. “It doesn’t have to mean anything, I just need to know–”

“That’s not a good idea.”

“Of course it’s not a good idea,” Bernie snorts. “But it could be worse. Wouldn’t it be worse if we didn’t, if we just–if we just always wondered, our whole lives, had it hanging over us?”

Elton stares at him then, assessing. There’s a long moment of silence. “Yes,” he says finally. “It would be worse. Let’s just–”

He can’t even finish his sentence, because Bernie is kissing him then, fervent and hot. Elton is sitting on the edge of his bed and Bernie is leaning over him, hands on the sides of Elton’s face, pressing their mouths together, slowly pushing Elton backwards until he’s lying flat on his back and Bernie is hovering over him, knees bracketing Elton’s hips.

Bernie kisses him, and Elton opens up under his mouth, eager, almost too eager except for how Bernie is right there with him. It’s not a perfect kiss, it’s far too desperate and searching for that, but it’s good, it’s _very_ good, with Elton pulling Bernie closer and closer and–

He doesn’t mean to break the spell; he would keep kissing Elton all day if he could. But Bernie pulls back to take a breath and the moment, tenuous as it had been, shatters between them. Bernie clambers off him, taking one step back and then two more for good measure. He feels raw, exposed, like his beating heart is pinned to the outside of his body and everyone can watch it skip a beat as he looks down at Elton’s stupid shirt and stupid glasses and stupid perfect face. Elton’s mouth is the reddest he’s ever seen it and there’s stubble burn on his cheeks, because Bernie never had gotten around to that shave, and probably Bernie shouldn’t feel quite so smug and possessive about that, but he does.

But there’s no point in any of it. What’s done is done.

“Just this once,” Elton tells him, soft and quiet. “This can’t ever–just this once.”

“Never again,” Bernie agrees solemnly, and it feels like a terrible tragedy, like he’s giving up something more precious than all the diamonds in the world. But it also feels like taking the last exit, like grabbing a safety net an instant before being swept out to sea and drowned. He knows that this is what’s best, for Elton and for himself and for the both of them together.

But something can be what’s wise and what’s best and still leave him aching and wounded and raw. 

“ _And you can tell everybody_ ,” Elton sings lightly, “ _that this is your–_ ”

“Stop,” Bernie says, voice cracking, and Elton does.


End file.
